


Everybody loves Newt Scamander

by Aethelar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (this is in large part sugar and fluff but there's also grindelwald and he is not sugar oh no), Because of Reasons, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, F/M, Gen, M/M, and the people that love him whether they want to or not, did i say love?, gellert really doesn't understand Newt like no not at all, headcanons run wild you have been warned, let's change that for 'are fascinated by him'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8648809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: Newt Scamander and the people (creatures, beasts, I'm pretty sure I can put anything sentient here) that get drawn into his life. 
A series of ficlets from different character's point of view that may, at some point, be connected or have a plot but as yet do not.
Also Pickett. Quite a bit of Pickett.





	1. Gellert Grindelwald (as Percival Graves)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just saw Fantastic Beasts and. jfc. NEWT.
> 
> So here, have a thing. If you have any requests for characters I've not covered yet, please feel free to shout them in the comments (or on my [tumblr](http://aethelar.tumblr.com)) and I'll do my best to include them.
> 
> RE plot, I have a vague plot in mind that may or may not happen because I'm a bit preoccupied with feelings at the moment, so this may just devolve into fluff.
> 
> Also a note because we start with Graves / Grindelwald: What even is Johnny Depp doing and wtf is that portrayal of Grindelwald. What. That will be derailed if/when I continue the Gellert bit, but for now, kindly think of Grindelwald as he's portrayed in the Harry Potter films by Jamie Campbell Bower. Muchly thank you.

Newt Scamander. British born wizard. Hufflepuff, expelled before he graduated. One older brother, a decorated war hero. No surviving parents, but a large extended family - the Scamanders were old blood. Not pure, not necessarily, but the roots of it were old.

Floppy, lopsided hair. Oversized blue coat. Long fingers, fidgeting with the edges of his pockets. Nervous.

Newt Scamander looks like nothing so much as nothing much. In any other situation on any other day, Gellert would dismiss the man and think no further of him.

It irks him that he, in this fictional other situation, may have made a mistake.

"I wonder," he says, keeping his voice calm and light to belay the interest in his words. "What makes Albus Dumbledore so fond of you?"

Scamander demures. He acts like he doesn't know the weight of the question Gellert is asking, doesn't know what it means to be someone that has caught Albus' interest -

Well, maybe he doesn't. Albus has such a lovely habit of using the people around him without ever saying a word of his schemes to them, it's entirely possible that Scamander is a hapless bystander in their torrid game. Still, though, it doesn't change the fact that Albus saw something in the socially inept wizard that he thought could be used. Hapless or not, Scamander is involved.

He gets a hint of what his one-time lover must have seen when he brings out the obscurus. He leans forwards, because this, _this_ is what he needs to know. The dark power of the obscurus has been extracted from its host, but how? The strength required to do this, the skill - this is soul magic at its purest, this is what he needs to be able to use once he tracks down the elusive child from his vision.

He expects Scamander to say he found it, like he 'finds' so many of his creatures. Or, failing that, for Scamander to speak of some great dark wizard on one of the many backwards continents he's visited that he wrested the thing from in some misguided attempt to save it.

"I separated it, took it, I took it from a girl in Sudan," Scamander haltingly explains. "I tried to save her." He babbles on, something about harmlessness and something that Gellert vaguely registers as the obscurus being useless without a body to inhabit.

Gellert isn't listening. He's still stuck on the fact that bony waif in front of him, the awkward Hufflepuff dropout, could split the dark magic out of an obscurus.

"So it's useless without a host," he manages to say, staring at Scamander as though he could see the strength of the wizard hiding in that deceptive frame. Scamander, curse him, falters, picking up on Gellert's phrasing and intensity with dawning suspicion.

"Useless?" he repeats.

Gellert makes and discards a dozen plans in the time it takes him to turn to the two witches acting as their security. The one he settles for is simple, elegant; he sentences Scamander and the girl (Goldberg? Goldstein?) to death, lacing a subtle command beneath his words for the girl to die first. He's already constructing in his mind the glamour he'll wear when he sweeps in at the last minute to save Scamander from an untimely demise. A fellow zoological enthusiast? No, too shallow, and too hard to maintain. An auror, junior, working the obscurus case and trying to save the child - yes, Scamander would fall for that. A girl, perhaps, as he seems to trust Goldstein well enough, but Gellert will have to match her features fairly closely to his own. Without time to use a potion to anchor the transformation as he'd done with Graves, he can't afford any major deviations in appearance.

The tracker he places on Scamander is basic and rough, but will be enough for his purposes. As soon as the wizard falls under the trance-like state required by law for magical executions, Gellert will be there to sweep him away. He's already pulling on the disguise as he strides around to a back entrance to the chamber, Grave's dark features falling away to his own sharp edges and high cheekbones. A twist of his wand and his hair falls into a messy blonde bob; a flick, and freckles chase across his cheeks and soften the harshness of his face. His pressed suit melts into a soft fawn dress and his shined oxford shoes flow midstep into elegant heels. The glamour settles against his skin and he pulls the new personality over his mind.

Charlotte, as she decides she will be called, is mere steps away from the hidden entrance to the execution chamber when she feels everything go wrong. She holds her new form for a moment's hesitation (because Charlotte is young, seconds old at best, but nothing born of Gellert Grindelwald would ever give up their existence just like that) then banishes the glamour with an angry sweep of her wand. It takes longer for Charlotte herself to fade, but it's Gellert again that strides through the corridors, Grave's face dragging his image down and Grave's clipped footsteps echoing off the walls.

He doesn't know how Scamander did it. Wandless, bound, guarded - the cuffs were magic resistant, strong enough that even Gellert would struggle with them. It's the second time in less than an hour that he's underestimated the man, and it pushes his interest that tiny bit closer to hunger. When he catches up with the pair of them (and damn, the girl as well? Was it too much to ask for people to just quietly die and get out of his way?) he hangs back, curious.

When he sees the creature he doesn't understand.

Vibrant blue-green plumage aside, it's deadly, vicious and elegant in the merciless way it takes down the aurors. A dark creature, it has to be, and a powerful one at that. Scamander commands and it listens, but the man doesn't have a wand and isn't firing off spells, not that Gellert can see. Is it imperius? Is Scamander so skilled with the unforgivable that he can fire it wandlessly and wordlessly? Does he have the control constantly running in the background, the creature always ready and waiting to obey?

The mind boggles. The skill, the strength of mind - the strength of magic required, it's unfeasible. Perhaps, he thinks desperately, perhaps there's no magic to it at all? Gellert is no stranger to manipulation, feeding people the lies they want to see. It's one of his greatest talents. Perhaps Scamander is like him, and that guileless face hides a scheming brain that cajoles and breaks his creatures until they serve him willingly.

He can see something, now, of what Albus saw. Newt Scamander would be a dangerous foe and an endlessly useful ally, if only he could be brought to heel. The ability to control, whether through a network of imperius curses or something infinitely more insidious, would be an ability that Gellert could use well.

Just. Really.

A Hufflepuff?


	2. Pickett the Bowtruckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Pickett. Pickett has a tree. Pickett likes his tree.

Pickett is a bowtruckle. Bowtruckles are small creatures, no more than a handful of inches tall, with small brown eyes and a leafy, twiggy appearance. Bowtruckles live in trees. Bowtruckles don't just live in trees, actually, they guard them. Protect them. Particularly magical trees, the sort that pesky little wizards with their pesky little magic tricks think would make useful (but pesky) little wands.

Bowtruckles are guardians of magical trees. Fierce and noble guardians of highly important magical trees.

Pickett is a bowtruckle, and therefore Pickett has a tree. Obviously. It's magical. And highly important.

It's not a very tall tree, and it's somewhat lacking in leaves. It does have some rather fabulous golden flowers right at the top that Pickett takes great care to arrange just so, tugging each curly petal into position and adorning them with dewdrops until they sparkle happily in the sun.

The tree also has a bad habit of shaking its head and sending its flowers into messy disarray, but Pickett is working on that. It's on the List of Things Pickett Needs to Teach His Tree, just above the need for adequate nutrients and water and one point beneath the need to run away from, not towards, things that breath fire. Or expel it from their nether regions. Fire is bad for trees, no matter how quickly they think they can dodge it. And nutrients! Not all trees gather nutrients via their roots systems, Pickett is well aware of this. He had a cousin that lived in a snargaluff, and her tree got everything it needed from the blood and bone marrow of passing backpackers. Pickett's own tree is not quite so particular, but it does have a fondness for sugar, an inability to process dairy products that leaves it unhappy and in pain for at least a day afterwards, and a severe lack of iron that would easily be solved with a backpacker or two.

Pickett is a bowtruckle. He can tell these things. Because he is a guardian of the trees and his tree, whether it likes it or not, is being guarded with Ancient and Mystical bowtruckle powers that can sense iron deficiency despite repeated protests that his tree is fine and Pickett should stop worrying and _take those leaves out of my mug Pickett, favourite or not you've got too far this time_. He uses his powers to hide the cream puffs and custard tarts that his tree invariably forgets it shouldn't eat, add iron-rich spinach and broccoli to any dish or drink that his tree is currently consuming, and pick the locks when his tree is about to be dunked in some kind of tree-eating shiny swamp.

Honestly. And his tree has the gall, the absolute nerve, to try and trade Pickett away as though he weren't the only thing on the planet that was keeping the stupid thing from withering away into a shrivelled stick? His tree is rude. And possibly suicidal.

He adds both things to the List and makes plans to start working on them as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because come on, _someone_ has to make sure Newt remembers to eat. Also I love the idea of Pickett putting spinach in literally everything, Newt's trying to drink a cup of tea and he puts it down for one minute, _one bloody minute Pickett I swear to Merlin_ and Pickett's stuffed it full of all the healthy things and neatly blended it into a lovely smoothie to make it easier to drink.
> 
> Poor Newt. He probably starts eating kale in the morning out of self defence just to make sure that Pickett leaves his damn tea alone.


	3. Queenie Goldstein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queenie Goldstein is a natural legilimens and only refrains from using her talents to rule the world because it would make her sister sad.

Queenie doesn't mean to read people's minds, it's just a thing that happens. When she was younger she didn't even realise she was doing it - there were just things she knew. She didn't question how she knew them. She just did.

She understands more as she gets older. She understands more when she hears things she shouldn't; she understands more when she picks up on the way people think she's strange, or think her sister is too plain to make it in a woman's world but too much a woman to make it in a man's, or think anything much at all about either of them.

The first time she tells her sister that their aunt has only taken them in for the inheritance and thinks the both of them brats, Tina calls her a liar and refuses to believe it. Queenie doesn't understand, not then. Tina investigates in the logical, methodical way that will set her on the path to being an Auror, and she discovers the trail of carefully siphoned funds into their aunt's pockets.

Aged sixteen to Queenie's twelve, Tina burns the evidence and explains to Queenie that she mustn't tell anyone. There's unrest in the muggle world and it's spreading to the wizarding world, and what's important is that Queenie has a house to come home to and an aunt to send her to Ilvermorny and sign her permission slips and keep her somewhere safe. What's important is that Queenie doesn't slip through the cracks like so many other war orphans (because witches have never stood by and let their men go to war alone) and if the steady drain of their inheritance is the cost, then it's the cost they have to pay.

Tina's mind hides plans, summer jobs and weekends spent working, school clubs she no longer has the time to attend. It hides a cache of bronze and silver coins in a box under her bed and a litany of repairing charms and engorgement charms for the old robes that the coins were supposed to replace. It hides an emergency fund in Queenie's name that their aunt knows nothing about and it hides nothing at all in Tina's name.

It burns on Queenie's tongue, the need to tell her sister to stop putting Queenie first. But Tina's eyes say _Please_ and her mind says _I can't_ and Queenie swallows her words and says _I promise_.

She hadn't understood, at first, but she learns. She is more careful with her knowledge. She tries for a while not to read anyone's mind at all, but it isn't something she can control. She keeps her words and her secrets tied up in her chest and says just enough to keep her sane, only the things that people won't mind her saying.

It's a promise. It's a promise she made when she was twelve years old and she hated her aunt for everything her sister refused to blame her for, it's a promise she made when she was fifteen and she slapped a man for thinking her an object that he could own. It's a promise she made at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen when she knew who to flirt with to get the tips she needed, it's a promise she made when she was twenty two and accidentally picked up security codes to the departments of MCUSA that weren't supposed to exist.

People cheated. Men were pigs. Women were bitches. People dealt under the table, broke laws, fiddled numbers. If she wanted to, Queenie could work her way to the top and no one would ever see her coming until she ruled them all with the iron fist she kept hidden in lacey pink satin, but she didn't. Because she promised.

Tina asked her not to interfere when she lost her job, so Queenie didn't interfere.

Newt Scamander asked her not to read his mind, but Newt Scamander was a potential threat that could hurt her sister, so Newt Scamander could suck it. She fed him a line about the British accent being hard to read (please, as if Queenie would let such a thing stop her) and picked through his thoughts like a gal in a diamond shop with her husband's money to spend.

And she just. She stops.

She's not even part way through, has barely scratched the surface, and she has to turn away and focus on the cooking just to hide her smile.

Newt is alright, in her book. He can stay. She'll dilute his cocoa with water because the poor lad has such a hard time with milk, though she adds an extra dash of honey to make up for the lost richness. She'll even add a splash of pepper-up to his drink - to both of the boys' drinks, because Newt will hardly go gallivanting off after his babies without his no-maj now, will he? And he doesn't seem the sort to remember a good warming charm when there's ice on the ground and winter in the air. The pepper-up will do them good.

At least, she remarks sadly to an empty room when the boys have gone and Tina's stormed furiously after them, it would have done them good if they'd drunk it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more about Queenie and Tina than about Newt, but I actually really enjoyed writing this one.


	4. The little feathered Occamy who shall henceforth be known as Susie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reaction to this has been overwhelming guys, I'm thrilled! Plot is developing - not so much in this one, but the next one is going to be Credence and then AU things will start happening. Although I did kinda get carried away with headcanons in this one, so it does stretch way off into the future. Hmm.
> 
> Also, is it Macy's on 5th that Dougal and the occamy were hiding in? I think so, but I can't remember for sure.

From the attic of Macy's on 5th avenue, there came a slow, listless crooning. It lisped and hissed, words lapsing into each other and some of the consonants missed out entirely, but it was - just - recognisable. It was also quite remarkably out of tune, in a manner that seemed like it must have taken dedicated practice to perfect.

"All alone, I'm so all alone, there is no one else but you. All alone by the telephone, waiting for a ring, a ting-a-ling."

Occamy tilted her head, tongue flicking out to taste the dusty air. It was stale and cloying, thousands of scents overlapping until she couldn't tell any of them apart.

She trilled mournfully and resettled her coils to fill the nest better, stretching and expanding until the wooden beams dug into her scales on every side. There was still free space in the corner, but that was more the awkward shape of the room and not something she could fix by growing any more.

She buried her head in her feathers and tried to scent something of home trapped in the quills. There wasn't much. She missed home.

"All alone..." she began again, repeating the snatches of song that had been playing downstairs during the day. Now, the day had finished - the yellow-red light that made the dust motes dance by the window was gone, and there was only the barest hint of silver reflecting off the objects in her nest.

A rustle, a gentle sigh, the faint sound of a thousand silk hairs brushing against each other - "Swanee!" she chirped, breaking into an far more joyous tune. "Swanee how I love you, how I love you, my dear old Swanee - "

Occamy stopped mid song. Her tongue flickered out, sorting through the new smells invading her nest.

She recognised one of those smells. One of those smells was important. She swayed, a heartbeat away from diving down to find that one important smell.

Swanee brought out a series of brightly coloured rolling things that glittered in the moonlight and Occamy was entranced, all thoughts of smells gone. She lowered her head, scales shifting over feathers as her entire focus was consumed by the new shinies.

She could keep them. Could she keep them? She wanted to keep them. Particularly... this one. No, that one. Both? Both. Ooooh, that one, that one's the one.

Then suddenly BAM, where did the people come from?

She abandoned her shinies collection and promptly forgot their existence in favour of investigating the new things that walked into her nest. Mostly the thing in front. Only the thing in front. She hadn't really noticed the other things, because the thing in front smelt of home, and warmth, and nest and perfect and Mummy Mummy Mummy -

Can you blame her for getting just a wee bit startled by the loud noises? The flailing around in panic, ok, _maybe_ that was a bit much. But she'd been distracted! By Mummy. And smells. Mummy smells.

Then there was noise and shouting, and where was Mummy, why had Mummy gone, Occamy could still hear Mummy maybe if she looked behind her she'd find Mummy and why were people screaming what was happening was something attacking the nest? _Something was attacking the nest get Mummy get Swanee need to hide --_

Ooooooh. Bug.

Look how shiny it is.

Occamy isn't a betting kind of gal, but she'd bet next season's spring collection that the bug would be crunchy. And believe her, she's heard a lot on Macy's crackling tannoy system about next season's spring collection, that's a big bet she's making right there.

She dives. The bug tries to hide in a tiny hole, but Occamy is smarter than that. She flows in after it with ease and yes, delightful, delicious yes, it's a crunchy kind of bug with that perfect bit of ooze and juice.

She settles in her new cozy nest with a happy whistle. Somewhere outside she can hear Mummy talking, so that is right in the world, and her new nest is all roundy shaped so she fits it perfectly and that is right in the world, and Mummy fetched her the most perfect shiny bug so that makes three things right in the world and that's as high as Occamy can count.

She'll miss the music though. She liked the music. Maybe she'll get Mummy to sing for her.

(Later, not much later but later, Newt scoops her out of her teapot and back into the nest with the other baby occamies. She curls around his fingers and nips investigates the warm darkness of his sleeves, and just as he turns to go she asks, "What's a ting-a-ling?"

Newt stares at her in somewhat dumbfounded, slack jawed delight. "A what?" he manages to croak out.

"A ting-a-ling," Occamy repeats, drawing out the sounds into the soft notes of the song. "It's part of a ring and a telephone. Mummy, what's a telephone?"

Somewhere in the background Tina throws up her hands in defeat. "It talks," she mumbles to herself. "Of course it talks. Why not?"

Newt laughs, bubbling out of him in childish glee, and holds out his hands for Occamy to crawl into. She does, gladly. Mummy is warmer than the nest and his sleeves are such _interesting_ little hiding places.

She doesn't find out what a ting-a-ling is. She does find out that Newt's pocket is occupied by a most disagreeable piece of kindling and his sleeves have a bad tendency to get squashed, but the space under his collar flap is just perfect for an Occamy to slide under. She likes to stay there in the cosy warmth and listen to Mummy talk and - very occasionally, when he's forgotten that the rest of the world exists - sing.

But see, the thing is, Newt can't sing. At all. He butchers songs (mostly muggle hits, he went to a muggle bar once and he found a _juke box_ and he ended up having to obliviate half the people there but that's beside the point because  _juke box_ ) and warbles in a horribly off-key manner that can barely be credited with having words or rhythm let alone any semblance of a tune.

One of those songs happens to be a rather jazzy number about  _a sweetie known as Susie_ \- and Occamy rather likes the idea that  _there's none so classy as this fair lassie_ , and Newt is by this point wrapped so far around her little finger (wing feather?) that he makes sure to sing it to her every night before bed. Occamy becomes Susie-cammy becomes Susie, and Pickett sits with leaves wadded up in his ears and resolutely is not jealous. (He is. Newt makes it up to him with woodlice and manfully chokes down his spinach-tea smoothies for a whole week until Pickett stops sulking.)

But the point is, Newt can't sing, and Susie copies his style with faithful diligence and sometimes they manage to harmonise just right to produce a  _godawful racket_. Pickett tries vainly to make them stop, but Newt's having too much fun with his little girl. Susie, for her part, thinks that the kindling, as she calls Pickett, is a grumpy old twig and takes great delight in sweeping him to the floor with her tail. Only sometimes, though, because the kindling is remarkably patient and creative in his vengeance and Mummy refuses to pick sides between the two of them when they're fighting.

Tina copes better than Pickett, but she just about gives up when she walks in on Newt teaching a human-sized Susie to dance. It's a disaster. Newt can adapt an erumpet's mating dance on the fly to suit human physiology, but the foxtrot eludes him. It also requires feet, which makes it a bit diffuccult for Susie, but the look of furrowed concentration on both of their faces is practically identical and Newt's so damn  _earnest_ in his attempt to explain and. Just. Tina can't.

Why is this her life.

They drag the dance to a painful, stumbling end and Susie wriggles in pleasure and demands that Mummy start it again, and Newt grins like daft idiot and manouvers them back to the start. Tina goes and hides with Dougal - who Susie still insists on calling Swanee, Merlin only knows why - and pretends she's not besotted with the pair of them.)

(Much later, Susie discovers Elvis Presley. It's tough, but survivable.)

(Much much later, Susie discovers Freddie Mercury. The less said of that the better, because while she never learnt to sing in tune, she did learn to compensate by singing loud. _Really_ loud.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, parseltongue. Headcanon time, it's not the snake language. Snakes have as many languages as people do, and most of them have eighty seven words for "that specific and most annoying itch caused by moulting" but exactly no words for "oh god taxes, amirite?"
> 
> What parseltongue _is_ is a skill that automatically translates what you say into a language the listener can understand, and automatically translates what they say back into your own language. It sounds like hissing because of reasons, which may or may not include parseltongue being invented by ancient scholarly dragons that have no time for this language bs. Some twerp has knowledge that would fit so nicely in their hoard but it's written in incomprehensible code, what even is this. Translation spells are a necessity for draconic mental health. And, because ancient scholarly dragons have evolved laziness to a fine art form, it's easier to bind the spell to their blood and magic rather than keep casting it every time they want to understand something, so it becomes a hereditary skill. Then there's knights trying to kill them, baseless accusations of kidnapping princesses, yada yada yada, one dragon somewhere gets fed up with not being understood and casts the spell on some annoying little prick that won't leave her alone, and whoops. The prick breeds and suddenly there's a strain of humans that can speak parseltongue.
> 
> It could happen to anyone, you know?
> 
> Anyway. Susie is a parselmouth and can speak to all humans, even the ones that don't speak English. I don't know how she copes with sign language, but I'm sure magic finds a way. Maybe the first time Susie meets a deaf person she falls out the air because her wings are suddenly moving on their own to make the signs, and after a bit of initial confusion she _loves it_. She starts stalking the poor lass and reciting Bohemian Rhapsody to her four times a day, just because look, look at the things her wings are _doing_ it's like she's dancing without even trying to dance and it's just so _cool_ wait come back there's one more verse --
> 
> And Tina just comes up with a cup of tea and apologises and obliviates the muggle yet again when the whole thing is done. She keeps meaning to have words with Newt about keeping his daughter under control, but Susie's having so much fun that somehow she never gets around to that conversation.
> 
> Eventually she stops obliviating the muggle because she's worried about brain damage, and once she's had enough time to get used to the flailing and over-excited snake thing, the muggle (let's call her Hannah, she seems like a Hannah) is totally cool with it. It's a bit tricky at first because wings aren't quite fingers and Susie speaks way too fast, but Hannah works things out. She even starts teaching Susie rude words in sign language when Tina isn't looking, and Susie accidentally falls in love.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and the music - confession time. I found 'all alone' (the first song Susie sings) on a list of 1920s music, but have since learnt that it's a much later piece so whoops. I could change it, or we could pretend that Frank Sinatra was a wizard who released into the magical world several decades before the muggle. Yes.
> 
> The songs used are:
> 
> Frank Sinatra's "All Alone"  
> Rufus Wainwright's "Swanee"  
> Eddie Cantor's "If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie"


	5. Credence Barebone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic, Credence thinks, must be colourful and bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, my hand slipped and you get two updates in one day.
> 
> Did anyone else notice that almost all of Credence's shots were in muted colours and primarily monochrome? Newt's suitcase is all bright and fabulous but muggle New York seemed like a pretty dismal place. Hence the inspiration for this bit here.

When Credence flees down into the subway, he isn't thinking about much. He's feeling everything at once, anger and fear and guilt and shame, turning over and over in his mind like a maelstrom until he can't tell where he stops and the roiling power starts and the panic feeds back into everything else and screaming only makes it worse --

But he's not thinking much. Perhaps, maybe, the vague need to get away, somewhere where he can't be hurt anymore. Where he can't hurt anyone else.

It's cold, in the subway. The darkness is heavy, cloying; it tastes of metallic sparks and engine dust, of the tramp of weary feet shuffling in endless routine to work. Credence settles against the far wall in the corner, sinking into dirt-blackened brick and numb exhaustion with something that feels like relief.

The mess inside his head doesn't go away, but the silence helps. In a minute, he'll put it away like he always does, drawing each little piece towards him as a precious memory and tucking them into the cardboard box that lives under his bed. It's a ritual. A retreat. A moment of sanctuary, in his old room in his old house with the treasures his old mother gave him, turning them over in hushed wandlight. His fingers still remember the feel of smooth soapstone, the way it curves and bunches beneath his touch when the little dragon spread its wings. He hasn't held the dragon for years, too many years, but his fingers remember the feel of it and it's there in his mind when he needs it.

He used to think he'd invented the memories, the safe space in the corner of his dreams that still smelt of his mother's perfume. Used to, until Graves showed him the truth, told him how it could be real. Graves promised him that dragons existed and that one day, one day Credence could see his tiny soapstone treasure in its real life form, larger than life and magnificent. In Credence's imagination, the dragons rise in garishly bright colour, golden-red fire spilling from a blue-green head and the sun shining off flared dragon wings like shimmering silk.

In his imagination, the world of magic is a different place.

There's a new treasure for his box this time. It feels like a hand on his shoulder and a fleeting touch against his cheek. It sits in his palm like an ending and he doesn't want to let it go.

He'll put it away in a minute. There's no rush.

"Credence?"

He tenses, shrinking further back into the brick. Fear thrums against what might be his chest, hurt-anger-pain sparking against his edges and demanding to be left alone. He clamps his mouth shut over something that feels equally like a snarling growl and a whimper.

"It is Credence, isn't it?"

The intruder is a man. Credence's vision is distorted, many angles and many shadows overlapping into an awkward mess that he can't quite interpret. He can see enough, though, to see that the man is crouched on the other side of the tracks. His hands are held up, palms showing, and Credence can't see the expression on his face. If the man is someone he's supposed to know, he doesn't recognise him.

The man keeps talking, soft and soothing, and Credence finds himself - not relaxing, no. Listening, maybe. The man claims that he wants to help, and despite himself, Credence is curious. Even Graves never --

Credence is curious. Curious enough that when the man says, "Can I come over?" he nods. He's surprised to find himself corporeal enough to manage that, but the man is calming.

Calm is not something Credence is familiar with. Tightly wound fear, aching longing, sharp moments of adrenalin and purpose followed by endless stretches of empty waiting - calm is nothing like these things.

The man picks his way over the rail tracks, every movement slow and careful. Credence watches him, unconsciously matching his breathing to the man's steps. He's almost fully human-shaped by the time the man perches himself on one of the metal tracks, long legs bent awkwardly and his wrists resting on his knees.

His coat, Credence notices, is blue. In what little remains now of his other form's vision, the coat flares sunshine-bold against the dimly lit subway.

"Credence," the man says. Credence's eyes flick up without his permission and -

Oh.

The man's hair is yellow. His cheeks are flushed pink. His eyes are brown. Credence lives in a monochrome world and Graves had stood out for his sharp contrasts, but this man, this man is made of _colour_.

"You're magic," he whispers, the words falling from his mouth unbidden. He flushes as soon as he says it (sallow grey against corpse-white, these are the colours Credence is) but the man smiles at him.

His lips are red. His teeth are white. His skin is golden-tanned.

"I am," the man agrees easily. "Well. I have magic." He hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. "You do too, Credence."

Credence recoils. The edges of his form shimmer out and his other-form vision gets stronger. The red-red-red of the man's pulse beats against his neck and power surges in his fear, but it is not a magic Credence wants. It's not the magic Graves promised he could have.

"I'm a freak," he spits, struggling to keep himself together.

"So am I, I think," the man says, though he doesn't seem bothered by it. He sits further back on the train tracks, his knees settling into a shambolic sprawl that Credence's mother would beat him for. Credence doesn't say anything, but his incredulous denial must show on his face because the man smiles again, rueful and close-lipped. "I'm not good at people things," he explains.

"People things," Credence repeats, struggling to understand.

The man makes a face, spreading his hands and lifting his shoulders in a lopsided shrug. The movement makes his trouser leg ride up on one side, and his left sock is yellow-black-yellow. "People are confusing. Beasts, though, beasts make more sense."

Hope blooms in Credence, and it's as foreign a feeling as the calmness. He leans forwards, all but the faintest traces of black smoke pulling inside himself. The question is on the edge of his tongue, eager and excited -

_"Have you ever seen a dragon?" he asked, staring up at Graves with wonder._

_"Dragons?" Graves said, his voice an amused rumble. "Everything that magic can do, and it's dragons you're after?"_

_"I -" Credence hesitated, unsure if he'd said something wrong. His question seemed suddenly childish, small-minded and boring._

_The hand that gripped his shoulder was reassuringly firm. "There will be dragons," Graves promised. Credence turned his head, leaning into the touch that the older man offered. "Do this for me, Credence, and you can have all the dragons you want."_

\- the words dry like ash in his mouth.

The man tilts his head, confused, able to sense that something is wrong but not knowing what it is. Magic roils beneath Credence's skin and he fights to keep it contained. Red is a colour and everyone bleeds, but he finds he doesn't want that colour from this man.

Graves enters like a thunderstorm, coat snapping around his legs like an angry predator. "Credence!" he calls, too loud and too sharp to be kind. (He is black against white and the contrast makes Credence want in a way he knows he shouldn't.)

Credence flinches, slipping into his shadow form as though it could melt through the bricks behind him and away. The man, the calm man, leaps up, coat flaring out in a swirl (of blue blue blue the colours are too bright when Credence looks through his other eyes) and a stick of wood - a wand - held defensively in front of him.

They're shouting, Graves and the man, and Graves' face twists the way his mother's does when she holds her hand out for the belt. Credence hunches in on himself but when Graves raises his wand, it's the man he uses it on. Not Credence.

The man drops. He screams.

Graves releases the magic, and the man staggers to his feet. Stands in front of Credence and raises his wand again. He deflects two spells, flicks them aside and jabs his wand forwards to send his own spell back, but the second time he goes down screaming there's blood staining his waistcoat and spattered in blotchy drops against his coat.

The blood is re **d** _rED_ r **eD** Credence e **xpL _oD_** _E_ S and if Credence loses his new-found source of colour here Graves will d **ie**

There is shouting. There are words and lies from Graves, and the man is pleading, his voice drawn thin in pain. Credence spares a tendril of himself to check the man's wound. He doesn't know what he expects to be able to do with it; he can't heal, not the way Graves can heal the cuts his mother leaves. The man stands, dragging on his chest and sending a fresh wave of red ( _rEd_ ) to soak his shirt. There's too much noise and too many feelings, and no space in Credence's head for him to _think_. He's acting mostly on instinct when he wraps the tendril around the man's chest, sliding under his shirt and over his skin in an attempt to seal the blood inside where it was supposed to be.

He is aware enough to notice both Graves and the man trying to protect him when the other wizards arrive, and he thinks, dizzy with relief, that maybe he was wrong. Graves cares about him. Graves followed him into the train station, Graves is shouting threats at the people who want to hurt him, Graves healed him and loved him and Credence repaid him with what? Guilt is a familiar stab of ice across his soul, but there isn't chance to beg for forgiveness.

The pain of being torn apart, when it comes, is almost a relief. The fragments of Credence sink into that last tendril curled around the man's chest, and Credence sleeps.


	6. Pickett part ii: The return of Pickett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickett's tree is the best tree, and that clearly makes Pickett the best bowtruckle. Clearly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Dev wrote in a comment on ch. 2:
> 
> I wonder if Bowtruckles have a hierarchy based on what tree they guard. And I can totally imagine Pickett riding atop Newt's head, screaming in a high pitched, almost in audible voice (kind of like what I imagine a flys voice sounds like) and saying "I AM PICKETT, KING OF ALL BOWTRUCKLES! BOW BEFORE ME- AND BRING SPINACH AND BACKPACKERS FOR MY TREE, IT NEEDS THE IRON!"
> 
>  
> 
> And whoops, my hand slipped.

You know the best thing about Pickett's tree, the best thing?

(other than the fact that it's Pickett's tree, of course, which in itself makes it vastly superior to all other pieces of twig which are bereft of Pickett's rather marvellous presence)

It moves.

Not in the wind. Not by leaning over as far as its roots will stretch. Not by flailing its branches around (though it does that a lot, sometimes with excessive flamboyance and sometimes with destructive side effects when it knocks things over in the process). No. Pickett's tree _runs_.

It runs! Really fast! It bounces and changes direction with no warning whatsoever and sometimes, sometimes it takes leave of the ground entirely and actually, honestly, _flies_. Not for very long and usually in a downwards direction, but. Pickett's tree flies.

Take that, Spigot from the pinewood forests. Pickett is Lord of the Open Skies and your dingy little valley can _suck it_.

Or.

_Or_.

Pickett and his tree visited a king, once. A water-king, probably some kind of rootless kelp (it even had long trailing fronds, though they were shimmering blue rather than the traditional greeny brown that kelp should be, clearly suffering from malnutrition), and while that entire episode was a severe lesson in why Pickett's tree could not be left unattended for any length of time, the king had some good ideas. Namely, tribute.

The water-king had some other ideas as well. Ideas like using rocks and bits of shiny shell (which, because Pickett is worldly and travelled and his tree talks out loud when he's thinking, Pickett knows all about) to mimic the pretty flowers the kelp was sorely lacking. Ideas like trying to make Pickett's tree marry another, lumpy-shaped piece of kelp that giggled, or like keeping Pickett and his tree trapped underwater with magic and spells until the wedding. Pickett's tree is a liability and should be forever thankful that Pickett is there to get it out of trouble, it really should, else it would end up married to all sorts of strange plants.

But. _Tribute_.

Pickett would like to change his title, he is now King of the Boundless Realms, and he demands tribute from his subjects in the form of iron-rich leaves to keep his tree healthy, rocks and shells to cover the bits of Pickett's tree that don't have flowers (pretty much everywhere except the crown of them at the top, really), and sugar mice, for Pickett. As King of the Boundless Realms, he demands to be fed sugar mice.

He'll eat them while surveying his lands from atop his flying tree.

Because Pickett is just awesome like that.

Yes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rootless kelp, incidentally, were a strain of south pacific jellyfish mermaids that lived off the coast of Stewart Island, New Zealand. There are indeed giant kelp forests there so you can forgive Pickett his confusion.
> 
> Newt was originally there to research kewa, huge whale-like creatures that are known for eating rock. They grind it to sand in a special compartment of their throats and sift the sand out between baleen plates, leaving behind the assorted animals and plant matter that had been living on the rock and that the kewa actually want to eat.
> 
> Glorious creatures.
> 
> Also, apparently, at great risk from the then-thriving whaling industry and therefore fiercely guarded by the jellyfish mermaids. Newt's attempts to get close to one of the kewa was not taken well, and if the son of the king hadn't fallen in love with Newt and declared their imminent marriage, Newt may well not have survived the encounter.
> 
> Not that the marriage was much more survivable. Bless them, the jellyfish were very hospitable, but they weren't fully up on the things land-dwellers need to avoid drowning.
> 
> Air. Air was one of the things. Bubble charms only last so long.
> 
> Thank god for Pickett.


	7. Grindelwald who calls himself a god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wizards are fools but Gellert Grindelwald is so much more than a wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, your comments. You are all awesome people and you give me so many things to think about that I can't type fast enough to keep up. So, this chapter is a bit pieced together because I wrote it in separate comment-fic replies that got waaayyy too big for comment-fics. Whoops.
> 
> Also remember, friends, Jamie Campbell Bower. This is the true Grindelwald. Yussss.

> _RavenclawInNightVale wrote:_
> 
> _Heh, I love how you portrayed Grindlewald here! It's perfect, manipilative, clever, yet incapable of understanding trust or innocence. I just loved this!_   
>  _(Which is more than I can say for Johnny Depp. I dunno, Firth made a better Grindlewald, more manipulative and authoritative than creepy)._

Grindelwald is a master of many things, but the one he prides himself the most on is the art - the fine, delicate art - of mastering people.

Any fool can wave a wand and bend the world to their command, but take their wand away and what are they then? There are some, fools still, but powerful ones, who can wave their hands and send their magic lashing out without a wand to fight and hurt and heal. But Grindelwald? No. He doesn't need to.

Grindelwald whispers in people's ears, and watches them tear themselves apart without him ever having to lift a finger. No spell, no magic or ritual could push the wizarding world to war, but Grindelwald will coax war out of them with dreams and fears until they gasp for the blood that rains from the sky. The muggles are choking their society and all the wizards in the world refuse to fix the problem, but Grindelwald refuses to bow and his words will make it so.

Wizards wield magic. Some wizards do it well. Gods wield people, and Grindelwald has never settled for being anything but the best.

 

> _Hello wrote:_
> 
> _I was wondering if you could do another from Grindelwald's pov of the battle during the train station because there are quite a few things Grindelwald does that I just don't really understand. The impromptu torture session, for instance. It seems like randomly wasted time._

The battle goes like this:

Grindelwald strides into the subway station and sees that Scamander has taken his obscurial from him.

His obscurial, because Credence was hurting and Credence was angry, yes, but these are things that Grindelwald can work with. These are things that will make his hold stronger, the guilt that festers from that moment of doubt. People need a chance to rebel because it gives Grindelwald a chance to prove them wrong. It gives them something to remember, next time, when they feel like rebelling again, and it makes them pause because what if they're wrong again?

Credence should have been easy. The groundwork was there. Everything was there.

But Grindelwald strides the subway station, and Scamander has taken Credence apart and put him back together and Credence always had such potential to be loyal. And _how_ , how did Scamander take that loyalty and make it his? Imperius, bindings, tricks, what does Scamander have that allows him to speak with the expectation that his creatures will kneel?

It is revenge, perhaps, to manoeuvre the situation so that the obscurial dies, but there is practicality there as well. Credence is dangerous, and it wouldn't do to leave Scamander with that kind of power to command. And there is satisfaction, perhaps, in the spells he throws and the torture and pain (Scamander's ribs break and there is blood spilling down his chest and for a moment Grindelwald is surprised to see how fragile so powerful a man can be), but there is necessity too.

Grindelwald is cruel, needlessly cruel, like an evil man would be.

Grindelwald is ugly in defeat, corned and shouting and rabid with defiance.

Grindelwald overlooks the little things, as if he couldn't see the threat that Newt represented (the burning, rough-edged threat that could be and will be and Albus, Albus, what have you found and what would you do if Grindelwald stole it away?) and lets himself be brought to his knees.

The face of Percival Graves melts away, fades like the man himself to reveal someone who is cruel and looks it, ugly in defeat, arrogant and evil and so easy to hate.

Grindelwald crafts a parody of darkness and gives it a bleached-white face, and who could ever be there to stop him if they never know what they're fighting against?

_(Albus knew. Albus saw and Albus promised to stop him, but Albus is a wizard and Grindelwald is a god and Albus will bow with the rest when Grindelwald sets his world on fire piece by torturous piece --)_

The wizards raise their wands against the caricature of cruelty and ugliness and arrogance, and reassure themselves that the hero will always defeat the fairy-tale villain so they have nothing to fear from him. Wizards are fools and the shadows of their folly, the world is marching to the beat of Grindelwald's war.

 

> _Hello also wrote:_
> 
> _Or the sentence "Do we die, just a little?" ( I think that's what it was). What does that even mean? And why the hell are you telling Newt? Why him specifically? Are you planning to see him again in the future? Get revenge, maybe? Are you gloating about future plans? Are you just trying to get a reaction? What are you doing? I'd just like to see your take on this with this story._

"Will we die, just a little?" Grindelwald asks at the end of it. He's on his knees, not in chains but only because Newt commands something far stronger than chains.

The first time, I thought it was meaningless. It's nothing. It's a taunt, maybe, a teaser for something to come - or just something to say so that Newt will remember him? Grindelwald doesn't forget easily, and he's plagued by the things other people have said and the hurts other people have caused. They echo around his head again and again, and this is why he understands the power that words possess. Words bring him low without ever needing magic behind them and Grindelwald had to suffer from that before he could understand it enough to use it against everyone else.

He hopes, perhaps, that Newt will worry. Jump at shadows and look over his shoulder, search out plots that don't exist and read meanings into the statement that Grindelwald hasn't yet created. Obsess over Grindelwald's words as Grindelwald obsesses over Newt, the first loop of a chain that Grindelwald will use to bring Newt down and bind him.

But Grindelwald doesn't spend words carelessly. Newt has a power so similar to Grindelwald's own in that people are caught in their orbit and do what they say - but different, somehow, in a way that Grindelwald can't see and wouldn't understand. Different because Newt never asks and Newt never expects and Newt would do the same for them a thousand times over, and the idea that someone accidentally has everything Grindelwald has worked for? Newt gets Credence and Newt has the swooping evil and it took Grindelwald a fucking _marathon_ to subdue Graves to impersonate him but fuck it, Newt could probably bat his baby blues and Graves would have caved like a wall made of daffodils --

So it drives Grindelwald mad, and on second thought, I don't think his words are meaningless. I don't think they're nothing. 

"Will we die," he hisses, lisps, whispers the words with a loving caress. Scamander's eyes fix on him and behind the mask of the disguise he wears, Grindelwald burns with hunger.  
  
The answer is Yes, because he will change everything and he will pay whatever it takes to do so. Remember, Grindelwald is not the villain of the story he sees unfolding - Grindelwald is the god wizard-kind needs, and he will lead them to freedom over the corpses of their enemies. Remember, Grindelwald believed in the greater good when he was young, and he is not an old man yet. Remember, behind the masks and the disguises and the woven traps he lets people fall into is a boy who once wanted to do the right thing, and that is so much more dangerous that an evil man.

The answer is No, because Grindelwald has never felt particularly attached to the vessel of flesh and blood that carries him through the world. Gods are made of ideas and followers, gods are born of the ripples they make through time and Grindelwald will release a fucking earthquake that will shake the foundations of the _cosmos_ until the stars will know what he's done. Gods are made, not born, and gods cannot die.

The answer is Just a little, because Grindelwald was a boy who wanted wizards to be free of the muggle plague, but Grindelwald is a god who wants the world to bow down before him and regret ever turning him away.

"Just a little," he says, and he says it to Newt because he thinks Newt is like him, gods at play in a world of mortal men and remember - remember, Grindelwald came to Albus in search of a partner. He made that mistake and he won't make it again, but remember that it happened because to err is human, and Grindelwald has long since stopped being that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've just realised I called him Gellert all through the first chapter and Grindelwald all through this. Whoops. Anyone have a preference for future appearances?
> 
> Still on the request list (holla if I missed any):
> 
> How Pickett met his tree  
> Jacob's view (next one, mostly written, may even post today you never know)  
> One about the niffler


	8. Jacob Kowalski

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob Kowalski was a soldier before he worked in the canning factory, but at heart he's always been the man that wanted to bake cakes because they made people happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arighty. Explosion of comment prompts. Shall be working through them; bear with me, comments may take a touch longer to answer than usual. Thank you all for the suggestions!
> 
> Also, look, Jacob's bringing us back to the plot thing. See, I told you I had one in mind.
> 
> And Jacob chapter is for Shimmering and DameNeamhain who both requested his point of view!

Newt is a pain in Jacob's ass.

Let's recap the evidence, shall we? In all of - oh, what, three days of knowing the man, Jacob's been implicated in a bank robbery (no loan for Jacob, oh no), viciously attacked by a hoard of magical creatures that left him unable to even stand up by himself, caught red-handed in a jewellery store break in, damn near sexually assaulted by an overly bulging nightmare rhino that dissolved a tree! A tree! With its horn!

How cool was that? That was damn cool. You know Jacob's fed mooncalves? Had them all but eating out of his hand, friggin awesome and the buggers are cute as a baby's button. Not to mention his occamy - his! His occamy! That he saw hatch! She's not really his, he knows this, but he saw her hatch and he's attached.

And the most beautiful girl in all of creation made him strudel and cocoa, and he swears he could taste the magic in every sugar-filled mouthful. It's just not fair to a guy, you know? You work all your life, you march through fields of mud and blood and god only knows how much death and you march out the other side into a job in a canning factory and it's just - it's not what he wanted, not all there was supposed to be in his life. Not what his babcia raised him for. And into this life, his repetitive, greyscale life, whirls Newt Scamander.

Jacob wants to be a wizard. He wasn't lying when he said that. But he thinks, maybe, that wizards are missing a trick or two, because he gets the distinct impression that Newt isn't highly thought of by his fellow magic-users.

And that, in a world where suitcases are portals to another world and Newt keeps a flying death-machine hidden in a yoyo for crying out loud, that is the thing that Jacob finds hardest to understand.

Newt thinks he's annoying, you know? He's shy about the creatures he loves. He's like a little kid - and Jacob has cousins, he knows little kids - and he wants to share all the fantastic things he's found so desperately, but someone made him shy. Someone made him turn away before he brought out his swooping yoyo so Jacob couldn't see how much it meant to him to share it (Jacob saw. Cousins. Twelve of them, all younger than he is. That furtive look back over his shoulder, that fidget that says he's about to do something he knows he shouldn't - please. Jacob is designed to notice those signs, because they usually precede something a lot more awful than a death yoyo). Someone made Newt scared of people.

Some asshole. Jacob served in a war, alright, he marched his way through hell and he marched his way out and he'll march his way up to the asshole and punch a bloody crater in their face. Wizard or not, Jacob will do it. He's used to long odds, he'll take that chance.

He doesn't say this, of course, because he has a feeling that Newt would actually hurt himself from awkward if he did. He just sits on those feelings and smiles when Newt shows him something else, something magical and fantastic and amazing that Newt's convinced himself no one would ever want to be shown. Jacob smiles like his smiles could save lives, and from the hesitant way that Newt smiles back, they actually might.

So yes. Pain in the ass. That's what Newt is, because Jacob had his life worked out and his bakery planned out and Newt's gone and upended the whole lot, and the worse bit is Jacob can't even find it in him to be annoyed. He makes eye contact with Queenie behind Newt's head and she shares a conspiratorial smile with him. He nods in satisfaction, glad that at least one member of the magical community has sense. And, of course, just that little bit of backbone needed to stand up to authority when authority has it wrong. Jacob appreciates that in a woman.

So he plays along like a good little no-maj and he walks out into the rain that will wipe his memories away. He even manages to not be hurt that Newt lets him go, because there are people who run into every fight as though it will be the last and greatest chapter of their biography and there are people who have far too many chapters left to write. Newt shouldn't be making his final stand over a no-maj baker without a bakery.

Not couldn't, because look at what Newt's done, would do again, could always do if his creatures needed it. That's the whole problem, isn't it? For a thieving niffler and an erumpet in season, for a demiguise baby-sitter and an occamy with the worst singing voice ever discovered, Newt Scamander faced up against a dark lord and won.

For the obscurus that Newt honestly believes Jacob doesn't know he's hidden away under that blue coat of his, Newt is going to try and do it again. Jacob knows war. He knows what men will do, what difference a weapon like Credence could make.

Hell, if Graves - Grindelwald - sees Credence as a weapon, who's to say he sees Newt as anything more?

Queenie catches his hand and squeezes, and he grips her fingers back tighter than he meant to. Still, it's enough to ground him in the here and now.

You're sure this will work? he wants to ask, but doesn't. Not out loud. Queenie smiles at him - it's tearful and shaky, just as a goodbye smile out to be, but there's plans hiding in the curve of her smile and teeth bared just behind her painted lips.

Jacob walks into the rain and kisses Queenie goodbye with his eyes shut. When he opens them again, every trace of her is gone.


	9. Comment fic round up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are the short little ficlets that have been posted in the comments up until this point. Enjoy!

> _Windstriker wrote (on Susie's chapter):_
> 
> _Poor Tina! She probably thinks she’s the only sane person, human or otherwise, in their little family, and she’s probably right. This is so amazing, someone who actually can draw needs to draw this I would frame it, with Newt and Susie ‘dancing’, despite one party having no coordination and the other having no legs, both of them singing along, completely tone-deaf, Pickett is covering his ears while sulking in a corner and maybe Newt asks if he wants to join in, and Tina is standing off to the side possibly face palming as she looks on and wonders what is her life. Museum worthy, or at least fanfic art hall of fame._

Tina has a photo album. It’s not a very large one, and it’s not actually an album, it’s the scuffed velvet box that held the ring she proposed to Newt with. Not because Tina is sentimental, don’t be ridiculous, it’s just a box that conveniently had all these (potentially excessive) protection charms layered on it, and it takes an expansion charm on the inside so easily that it would be silly _not_ to use it to keep things in.

So. Anyway. She has a stack of photos in her album box. They’re tinted silver, all of them, the colours slightly faded, and they’re kept between sheets of wax paper to stop the pictures steaming off the paper in swirls of pearly mist. You have to be careful with memory-prints like that, they’re not as stable as photos taken with a traditional camera. Even the process of drawing the memory out and sinking it into the potion-soaked paper is tricky, and one or two of the photos are missing parts, worn away in patches.

Not that it matters. Tina is an old woman and though her eyesight is fine, thank you, don’t you dare fuss, she doesn’t keep the photos for looking at. She runs her fingers over the edge of them with her eyes closed and rests a wrinkled hand over her husband’s silly, floppy hair.

The stolen juke box crackles in the corner of the room. Pickett squeaks obscenities and objections, hanging on to Newt’s collar button for balance. Susie counts the music, a steady _one two three four_ with added emphasis on the _one_ , and Newt’s attempts to count with her trail off into an unmanly yelp as he dances backwards into the table.

There is laughter, and there is music, and the memory plays again.

 

> _Windstriker also wrote (on Queenie's chapter):_
> 
> _I love Queenie. She’s like a sexy, badass, more grounded Luna Lovegood, in that she’s very perceptive of other people, but she could definitely kick anyone’s butt in her sparkly pink high heels._

“Special occasion?” Tina asks when she sees Queenie’s outfit. The dress she’s wearing is short, though the pattern of fringing around the hem makes it look longer. The front is restrained, by Queenie standards, but the back swoops scandalously low, a pattern of interlaced beaded strands offering only a pretence at propriety. They match the straps on Queenie’s shoes; pink, heavily sequined - with an extra light-diffusion charm thrown on for added sparkle - and high enough that Tina’s ankles ache just looking at them.

Queenie waves her off. Her nails are painted a shimmering fuschia, Tina notes, the expensive kind of polish that doesn’t ever chip. “Nothing much,” she says airily. “Just talking to some fellas about some things, you know how it goes.”

Years of exposure to Queenie keep Tina from wincing, but she does pinch the bridge of her nose. “Go easy on them?” she asks (not begs, because Tina doesn’t beg). “Just… don’t get the aurors called out?”

Queenie kisses her cheek and sweeps through the door with a subtle smell of perfume. “You worry too much!” she calls up the stairs as she goes.

Tina considers that, discards it as preposterous, and resolutely turns off her auror radio. If someone does call the aurors on Queenie, she doesn’t want to know. Hear no evil and all that.

 

> _Moira May wrote (on Pickett's chapter):_
> 
> _It is lovely to know that somebody takes care of Newt. We all know he’d probably eat dog biscuits if left alone for too long._

“Newt,” Jacob asks with a somewhat pained voice. “What is this?”

Newt glances back over his shoulder. The odd contraption on his head whirrs as it balances no less than four magnifying lenses in front of his face, making his eyes look almost comically huge. “Oh,” he says distractedly. “Bonios, I think those ones are.” The tiny ball of fluff and feathers in his hand makes a wheezing, pathetic chirp and he turns back to it with a hasty shushing sound.

“They’re _dog biscuits_ ,” Jacob stresses. “For dogs. They’re shaped like little bones, Newt. _Little bones_.”

“They’re also fortified with multiple vitamins, high in fibre, and apparently good for my teeth,” Newt adds absently. It has the ring of something learnt by rote, and from the way Pickett counts each point off on his tiny fingers and nods with satisfaction, it may well be. Jacob gives the self-important twig the stink eye and resolves to put a batch of cookies on for Newt as soon as he gets back to his bakery.

 _Dog biscuits_. Honestly.

“And there we are, beautiful,” Newt croons. “All better.” The ball of fluff hiccoughs and goes up in hissing black flames, clouds of oily smoke hanging around it and poisoning the workshop with the stink of sulphur and decay. Newt beams.

 

> _Guest wrote (on Pickett's chapter):_
> 
> _Pickett: *dumping spinach on newt’s toast* i love my big, dumb tree  
>  Newt: WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THIS SPINACH IS THIS STOLEN_

Newt wouldn’t mind the spinach, even. He quite likes spinach. It’s a nice shade of green, it goes very well with nutmeg, and he had it once in Greece with garlic and raisins and toasted pinenuts and that was _glorious_.

But. There’s a time and a place for spinach, and breakfast is neither the time nor the place.

He starts keeping his tea mug behind a protective shield charm because otherwise it’ll end up as a strangely thin soup of assorted leaves and (presumably vitamin-rich) vegetables. The shield charm wasn’t the first line of defence - at first he thought it was just something Pickett liked doing, so he made two mugs in the morning and left one for Pickett to mess with to his heart’s content. But no, Pickett could see through that. Then Newt started leaving one mug out as a decoy and keeping the other one hidden beneath the table, but Pickett saw through that one as well. He tried straining charms to remove the assorted debris from his cuppa, except that Pickett retaliated by blending everything so fine that his straining charms picked nothing up. Newt systematically removes _every single leaf of spinach from the entire suitcase_ and, in the morning, Pickett’s dumped an entire plant into his mug, leaves and roots and mud and all.

So, the shield charm. It’s the only way.

When Pickett responds by targeting Newt’s toast - Spinach turned into an unappealing green paste this time, why Merlin why - Newt gives up. He eats his spinach toast. Pickett nods proudly at him and adds a few more leaves for garnish to the rest of the plate and for some unknown reason, Newt dutifully munches his way through those as well.

 

> _ksuzu wrote (on Pickett's chapter):_
> 
> _Aaaaah! This is magical. I read this chapter at least three times, and now I have a Farmer’s Market Hippy Newt stuck in my mind, with one of those trendy KALE T-shirts._

AHAHAHA THAT MENTAL IMAGE

Tina goes grocery shopping with Newt exactly once, then swears off doing it _ever again_. Because it turns out that she’s not grocery shopping with Newt, she’s grocery shopping with a bossy little bowtruckle that has to approve _every single item of food_.

Why. They’ve been out for three hours now. It’s like watching a slow moving train wreck, something awful that keeps getting worse but somehow so compelling that she can’t look away.

Currently, Pickett is diving amongst the assorted stalks and leaves of a display of kale, and Newt’s just standing there and patiently waiting for him to choose one. Just standing there. In a no-maj greengrocers with a mad bowtruckle on the loose.

Why.

Pickett takes dainty, fussy bites of each leaf and contemplates each one before shaking his head with inevitable dismay and moving onto the next. One potential candidate gets brought forward and held against Newt’s ear as if that’ll help the bowtruckle decide before it too is thrown aside in contempt.

“Well, it’s a city,” Newt explains apologetically. “I’m sure it’s the best they can do.”

Pickett frowns mournfully at the kale in his hand before tossing it into Newt’s basked with a dejected sigh.

Never again, Tina promises. _Never again._

 

> _Highly_Illogical wrote (on Grindelwald's chapter):_
> 
> _I adore how Grindelwald is simply unable to comprehend that Newt's creatures do what he says because they LIKE him. I don't know if it was intentional or not, but it reminds me of Voldemort's inability to understand love._

I definitely think there's something in what you say. Voldemort though - Voldemort's cold. He looks at the world and the people around him, the warmth they carry and the love they share, and he looks at himself without it and he's cold. At first he wants it, what they have. He's young and Dumbledore's the first wizard he met, the first real person in a pantomime of muggles, and he'd do anything to be approved of.

Dumbledore doesn't give his approval. Voldemort tracks down his parents and learns that his mother died for her love, and his father's love was bottled. He dismisses it, ignores it, calls himself better for not being caught up in this fantasy of warmth that the rest of the world will live and die for. It's why he was so blindsided by Lily and what she did, why he never understood Harry's defiance or the reasons Snape betrayed him.

And Grindelwald, I think, wants that. Not being blindsided, not being unable to act against a rebellion he never saw coming, but the cold. The ability to dismiss things.

Grindelwald's love burns. He is fire and he is courage - he never went to Hogwarts, but Grindelwald would have been a Gryffindor to the very core of his being. He will not bow to keep the peace; he'll fight for what he believes in. He will not stand by while the muggles grow stronger; he'll do whatever it takes to be the hero that saves his people. He does not love with kindness and with gentle touches (though many a Gryffindor does), he loves with the force of the sun and the greater good held proud like a beacon above him.

When Dumbledore turns Grindelwald aside, he isn't able to be cold, like Voldemort is. He isn't able to call himself better off for lacking it, like Voldemort does. He isn't able to ignore the love that other people have, not like Voldemort can.

Voldemort became a Dark Lord because he could and because he was afraid not to be. Later, he became a despotic madman because his soul was shredded in pieces and no one could tell him to stop.

Grindelwald becomes a Dark Lord because he wanted to save the world and the world said no. He wanted Albus to do it with him and Albus said _no_. Grindelwald burns and his anger will consume him, and this is a madness all of its own, a hell inside his own mind that Grindelwald cannot escape.

So yes, there are similarities. Voldemort (young Voldemort, with his soul whole and his mind intact) is everything Grindelwald wants to be; the coldness, the lack of care, the ability to take the flames and turn them off. Grindelwald has taken his anger and buried it deep and built himself the veneer of a man who is cold, a statue of a god who is beyond the reach of Dumbledore's hurt.

His statue has clay feet and one day he'll learn, but for now, yes, there are similarities between Voldemort and the man that Grindelwald pretends he is.

 

> _And a conversation on tumblr about Grindelwald breaking out and going after Newt resulted in stylishbutdefinitelyillegal writing:_
> 
> _Now I imagining various shenanigans where Grindelwald gets THIS close to capturing Newt but then one of the Protection Squad thwarts him. The most embarrassing of which is the time with the No-Maj, the Niffler, and the Bowtruckle._

(this is pure crack I'm not even sorry but it was one in the morning and this is what happened)

This is _not in chronological order of the plot_  why are you doing this to me. Help.

But it had been foolproof. Grindelwald’s best scheme to date. He was actually proud of this scheme, he still can’t quite believe it went quite so badly as it did.

It started, as any decent kidnapping plot does, with an invasion of flying fish (the magical kind, of course) and fire crabs, fire crabs being large tortoise-like creatures with a penchant for shooting fire out of their behinds. The army of creatures was enlarged to ridiculous proportions; fire crabs taller than buildings stomping around like giants over an ants nest, flying fish the size of dolphins tearing down main street and wailing as they went. Grindelwald had gone to a lot of trouble to choose creatures that not only took to the enlargement charms well but were easy to control; all had to do was speak his commands into the shiny anchor-stone in his pocket, and his army would flow around New York any which way he wanted them to.

It was a heartwarming sight, if he was honest.

So stage one was the glorious revolution of the enlarged minions, which quite nicely kept the wizards and aurors occupied.

Stage _two_  had actually been set up the week before, when Newt had received an owl from a concerned bystander about the awful kraken in the sea that was driving all the fish and fire crabs onto the land. Grindelwald had actually gone to the effort of procuring a kraken and hidden in just off shore. Attention to detail, it’s what made good plans great.

(flying fish and fire crabs both being native to the south pacific islands and kraken being decidedly more scandinavian were details that he _had_  paid attention to but decide to ignore as they didn’t fit his aesthetic and therefore had to go)

So, while all and sundry were fighting off the minion army, Newt went haring down to the sea to find the kraken and convert it to the One True Way of Scamander.

Stage _three_  involved the kraken capturing Newt and bodily dragging him into the mouth of a Jonas whale for safe keeping.The Jonas whale had strict instructions to dive to the secret underwater base that Grindelwald had built in an underwater volcano in the middle of the atlantic, from which Newt would be completely unable to escape. Grindelwald could smash New York around a bit and retire at his leisure to his geothermally heated hot tub forty leagues under the sea. With Newt. (Not in the hot tub, just under the sea. Grindelwald didn’t share hot tubs because other people had really bad habits of splooshing the bubbles everywhere which was just rude)

One two three, nice and easy, lovely jubbly.

The plan progressed nicely through stage one.

Then a muggle - a _muggle_  - started shouting something about cinnamon? was it cinnamon? and dragging trays of sticky white buns out of his bakery. The fire crabs stopped dead. Just like that. All eyes on the buns.

A great, roaring cry went up among the fire crabs, drumming through the foundations of New York like the shockwaves of a tsunami: “Bunnnzzz-zuh. Cinn-ah-mon bunnnnnnzzzzZZZ-ZUH. BUNNNZZZZ- _ZUH_. CIN-AH-MON BUNNNNNNNZZZZZZZ- _ **ZUH**_.”

The muggle began flinging his buns at the fire crabs like a dog trainer with treats, and one by one Grindelwald’s giant minions broke free of his mind control and gathered round the muggle to swallow the buns whole. How the hell the muggle knew the fire crabs greatest weakness was beyond Grindelwald, but he blamed Newt.

It was, frankly, embarrassing. At least he still had the flying fish. And the kraken. And the Jonas whale.

Grindelwald turned his flying fish to the coast and abandoned the city of New York to the muggle. The other fish pivoted and streamed out after him, a silver cloud of gaping fish-mouths and flapping fins gathering around him as he swept out to the bay. He smirked as he saw stages two and three progressing nicely; Newt was alone, currently being held aloft by the kraken in the middle of the bay. The Jonas whale was surely seconds away from swallowing them both whole and carting them off to the evil lair.

The moment of distraction spent congratulating himself was the only reason Grindelwald wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

It wasn’t the only reason. _No one could have been prepared for what happened next_.

Newt pointed up at Grindelwald on his army of flying fish. The kraken nodded and reached back a tentacle to fling something into the air. Grindelwald had a moment of resigned horror to note that, of fucking _course_  Newt had turned his kraken against him, before the ‘something’ the kraken had thrown barrelled into him and nearly knocked him off his fish.

“Pickett is Lord of the Open Skies!” a twig yelled in an unfeasibly high pitched voice (it came out as a yodelling war cry, as alas Grindelwald did not speak bowtruckle), tiny twig-legs held out in a textbook flying kick that broke Grindewald’s nose. The twig landed on his shoulder and spun straight into a roundhouse kick that landed squarely in Grindelwald’s ear and made him feel nauseous, dizzy, and like his head was about to explode. “Who dares hunt Pickett’s tree?” the twig bellowed in challenge, right next to his poor abused eardrum, and that didn’t really help.

It was at that point that the second of the two assailants made himself known - a wriggly, black-furred pest of creature that had slipped inside Grindelwald’s pocket and _stolen the command stone for the flying fish_.

Grindelwald had a moment of _oh fuck_  that stretched out into a lifetime as he stared at the creature. The bugger had the gall - the actual _nerve_  - to give him a cheeky wave before slamming its paw down on the stone. The effect was instantaneous; every fish flipped belly up and proceeded to dive straight down towards the sparkle of sunlight reflected off the water. Grindelwald plummeted like a stone.

Straight into the open mouth of his Jonas whale.

It was not, exactly, how stages two and three had been planned to go.

_(in the harbour, Newt looks up from patting his new friend Jimmy the kraken and spots Pickett and the niffler clinging to a giant flying fish for dear life. A quick summoning charm sorts that situation out, but he can’t for the life of him work out why the giant fish keep nosing at the pocket where he usually keeps his niffler treats._

_And hadn’t Grindelwald been around here somewhere? Strange.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and once Tina manages to shrink the fire crabs, Jacob and Queenie keep them as pets. They're absolute darlings once they've had their cinnamon fix (buns, hot cocoa, even a spicy curry or two, they like it however it comes) and they only rarely set the curtains on fire. They do look awfully embarrassed about it though, so Jacob can't stay mad at them for long.
> 
> The flying fish, however, become the Scourge of New York because the niffler refuses to allow them to be shrunk and sends them out on missions to fetch him treasure. He ends up with so much it won't fit in his pouch and he lounges on piles of it. Pickett makes a point of stopping by to demand tribute, because a lot of the shiny rocks are strung together into things that are just right for hanging on his tree and if he uses just a little bit of his ancient and mystical bowtruckle powers, Newt can't undo the clasps and take them off. Pickett can, because Pickett can pick any lock, but he usually doesn't.
> 
> Also, Pickett's karate abilities are totally going to be a thing. Beware, Grindelwald.


	10. The little Sudanese girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> amo_scribens asked for a piece on the Sudanese girl, so this is that piece about a little obscurial who Newt couldn't save.

Hmmm. Hmmmmmmm.

Question the first: where did the obscurus come from? Credence’s fear came from a religiously fanatical mother. It’s strongly implied that witch burnings and the like were to blame for a lot of the obscurials in the wizarding world in the past. But in the 1920s in Sudan? I don’t know that it fits. My knowledge of Sudan is somewhat limited because I never actually studied it, but one of the lecturers at my uni was fairly involved in the whole north/south issues going on atm and so I picked some stuff up. My understanding of Sudan goes like this (but may be completely flawed so watch out for that and if anyone spots a glaring error or bad representation please feel free to throw shoes at me until i fix it):

So if we start with Egypt under the Pharaohs, then what we have is a region just to the south of Egypt that was considered ‘somewhat unlawful but probably ours’ (at various points in time conquered or a trade partner) then a layer of marshland (that very roughly marks the border between North and South Sudan, but nowadays the oil is the key thing not the marsh) and then an area inhabited by several groups of people that was considered 'things to be exploited and slaves’. That, unfortunately, is a divider between the two lands that kinda stuck, and when the British first moved in in the 19th century we had 'them lands to the south of Egypt (which is ours) that are actually quite well developed’ and 'them lands to the south of that that are to be exploited and slaves’. Except that the Brits had outlawed slavery, so we got 'them lands to the south to be exploited and forced manual labour for very little or no pay’ which wasn’t exactly much better. After the first world war, America started getting uppity about colonies and shit so Britain kinda scaled things back in Sudan but actually kinda just set up a puppet government and left a dude called Lee Stack there to run it. South Sudan still gets exploited and people shipped off to jobs they didn’t really want and life ain’t great.

On top of all this, add the fact that the South had many groups of people living in it and most of them hated each other. War. Raids. Mostly raids; land didn’t matter, but cattle and resources and all that jazz were big news. So raiding neighbouring groups was common and getting captured as a prisoner of war (and maybe shipped off to the north who knows) and life was, in general, pretty shit.

So where does our Sudanese obscurial go? Tough question. I have honestly no knowledge of the belief systems of the South, but I would imagine they were more open to magic than of the North? Particularly given that in the HP universe magic _happens_ , it’s not just demon stories or superstitions, the South would have incorporated it in some way or other into their lives. The North though, that’s got Islam running through it and my knowledge of the Islamic belief system is also less than it should be but in general in HP-verse religion and magic seem opposed. Particularly in Fantastic Beasts.

So, let’s stick her in the North. She spends her first few years with a family that is small but kind, and sometimes she makes glow-lights appear at night to mimic the stars and sometimes she makes bubbles appear in the day and chases them on the wind, and it’s all good.

She doesn’t think about the slaves much (they aren’t slaves, they’re _workers_ , workers on the plantation) except to note that they’re different from her and that she’s glad she doesn’t have to work the cotton. (cotton cash crops started in 1914, let’s say our girl’s family was involved.)

Except then one of them notices her magic. And he’s from the south, he’s cool with this shit, and everything is fine.

Except then someone from the North notices her magic, and in the North we are cultured young lady, we don’t practice the heathenistic ways of the south. You don’t want to end up like the southerners now do you?

And the south, remember, is poor and war torn and they end up shipped to the north as slaves, and _bam._  This is where the suppression comes and this is the start of our obscurus: she associates having magic with all the bad things that the southerness suffer, and she’s afraid that her magic will mean those things happen to her.

It could happen? It could happen. We’ll roll with it.

So she’s eight years old, she lives in fear that if she makes a wrong move with her magic she’ll be sent to work in the plantations or banished to the sudanese equivalent of the badlands (in the 1920s, at least), and her solution to this is to push a part of herself down so far it turns into some kind of cancerous parasite that’s killing her from the inside out. And she’s _eight years old_.

And into this walks Newt.

Newt, who has magic. Newt, who, when she asks shyly about war, doesn’t try and tell her that she’s too young to hear about it. That’s one of the social things that Newt never quite grasped, the idea that there’re things to be known but some people ought not to know them. He tells her in halting, painful steps about dragons, battles, losing friends you loved - sending friends you’d raised from the shell out to fight and die for a war that was never theirs to begin with. Newt, who offers to teach her and makes it sound like it could be a good thing, but who hides his magic from her family just as much as she ever did.

Credence will learn one day to harness the parts of himself that are angry and want to hurt. He’ll learn to accept that his mother might have been right about some things (if you stretch mince with breadcrumbs and oats you can feed more hungry mouths, and there’s many a child in the back-alley streets that are starving to death these days) but was so very wrong about so many more (Credence, magic, belts, _Credence_ ) and he’ll learn to see magic as something that is as much a part of him as anything else.

Our little girl in Sudan didn’t get that chance. She looked at Newt and she saw someone a long way from home, like the southern workers were, someone who hid his magic, like she did, someone whose homeland had been at war, like the southern lands were. She was too young, then, to understand that her parents could be right about some things and wrong about others - or even that they could be wrong about anything at all.

Newt tries to show her that magic can be wonderful, but when she asks about the creatures in his suitcase, he admits: I keep them with me to protect them. They are magical and they are hunted and poached and exterminated - they are hunted and poached and exterminated _because_  they are magical.

Being magical is dangerous, and Newt can’t lie to someone he’s trying to help. Just by existing, he reinforces her beliefs and he makes the obscurus that bit stronger, and the worst thing - the thing that clings to him, barbed hooks of guilt digging into his soul - is that maybe Newt made it worse.

 

I’m sorry. You probably wanted a happy story, as happy as any story with an inevitable ending can be. You probably wanted something sweet, something innocent - Newt wants to show her that magic can be kind, and he waves his wand and makes a rain of butterflies appear to circle around her with a thousand butterfly kisses on her outstretched arms, he does that and that’s happy - but the truth is that the little girl in Sudan was afraid and it killed her.

Newt is not blind. He does not believe that every animal he meets will be his friend; his skin is mottled with scars and in his dreams he sees the ones he couldn’t save. Newt was at war and sent his dragons off to die and it broke his heart, again and again and again - but if not him, then who? Someone who didn’t care? Someone who wouldn’t patch them up when they came home, who wouldn’t settle in the crook of their wing and watch the stars with them at night when they needed some company? Sometimes there’s no good way through, only a way to lessen the bad.

So he researches. Everything he can reach, everything he can get his hands on - Leta, he goes to Leta because obscurials were once considered dark and Leta’s family is dark, and she sends him what information she can because they were friends, once, and she hasn’t quite let that go - and Newt comes up with the plan.

The little girl doesn’t cry, when he offers it to her. She’s solemn. She runs her fingers through the demiguise’s silky-soft fur and asks, in a voice gone thin and quiet from dying, if Newt would leave her when she wasn’t magical no more.

No, Newt says. He threads his fingers through hers and brushes her hair behind her ear, and doesn’t place a butterfly on her nose because some things are too important for happy distractions. No, he says, I won’t leave. I promise.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t leave.

Without the ice-cold of the obscurus’ fear, the little girl burns hot with fever. She cries, whimpers, soft and broken sounds that Newt’s language charm can’t translate but that he understands all the same. She wastes, the little girl who lived under fear and is giddy and delirious from the lack of it, and Newt sends butterflies to dance for her even when she can barely lift her hands for them to land on -

 

I don’t think I want to write this anymore. The ending is inevitable, we know how it goes. You don’t need me to say.

But Newt didn’t leave. That’s the last of it, the final part of the little girl’s story. The butterflies danced and the demiguise curled up under her hand, and Newt didn’t leave.

 


	11. NEWT KOWALSKI. YES.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob: look i didn't ask to adopt you but consider yourself adopted queenie and i have the papers we leave at dawn bring the yoyo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A guest left that comment. Guest! Why guest? Come, reveal yourself so I can squee at you over Kowalski family feels, for I have many and I have whole _histories_ planned out for the Kowalski family. I hope you people all like Kowalskis.

Aneta Kowalski had four sons. She also, for many years of her life, had a husband who kept pigeons and swept the pavement outside his corner shop and told inappropriate stories to his children and grandchildren to make them laugh. Aneta’s Kowalski husband is a whole story of his own though, so for now let’s look at her four sons.

The oldest was born in Poland, the only one of the four to see his home country. There was a gap - not a scandalous gap, but a gap - between the oldest and the next one, and he was always such a serious little thing, her firstborn son. He held himself as a gentleman ought and scurried around after his brothers to keep them in line, and in his twenties he met a girl in a yellow dress who laughed and called him sweet. He wandered home in a daze and told Aneta that he was going to be married, though it took him almost a year to gather the courage to ask.

The second son was born in New York, in the cramped back room of a cramped apartment, and he grew up taking things apart and putting them back together to find out how they worked. He wasn’t always very good at it - Aneta learned early on to keep him away from her kitchen, but he used to sit on the workbench in his father’s pigeon shed and he learnt how to carve wood and fit it together, how to hammer a nail so the grain won’t split, how to layer paint so the colour shone strong. He was her odd little boy with his head in the clouds and a mind full of genius things, and when he was thirteen he built his first clock out of the scraps his father found him.

Sons three and four were twins, twice as loud and twice as fast and twice as likely to crawl in the oven if Aneta took her eyes off them for just one second. She got in the habit of picking them up, one under each arm like a pair of recalcitrant puppies, and dropping them at her eldest son’s feet when she needed just a moment of time to rest. He’d regard them with solemn responsibility and try to teach them their letters from his own school books, patient and unmoving despite the fact that his books were for boys ten years older than either little twin. The one twin grew up to be a gambler, starting businesses and watching them collapse around him - rubber, tin, sugar and gas, he invested in all of them at one point or other and made and lost more fortunes than Aneta could ever spend. The other twin went to the army and set his sights on the general’s stars, crawling his way up the promotion ladder whenever someone took their eyes off him for more than a minute at a time.

This was the twin that helped raise Jacob the most when Aneta’s firstborn son and his wife in the yellow dress both died of the flu. This twin was older than Jacob, of course, but not by a huge amount, and he was still living at home when Aneta took Jacob in. The other twin was too, but - well. This was the twin that helped the most. Jacob grew up the only son of Aneta’s oldest son, orphaned but part of a family that cared, reading the letters his favourite uncle sent back about the (carefully edited) heroics of war.

But Jacob was his father’s son, let’s not forget. When the cousins started appearing, Jacob rolled up his sleeve and shepherded them away from the ovens they wanted to crawl into. He doled out cookies one by one and he told them the stories his grandfather had told him. And when he followed his uncle’s footsteps and marched to the front to fight, he found a group of boys that laughed and had nightmares and cried over dead bodies in the mud, and Jacob rolled up his sleeves and bustled around them, never intruding and never poking at wounds too raw to touch but just there. Always there. His babcia sent him care packages of hard biscuits and bitter chocolate and Jacob shared them, because he had cousins, and because he was his father’s son and his grandmother’s grandson, but most of all because he was Jacob Kowalski.

He didn’t see his cousins so much when he came back, living across town as he did. But he saw them enough, in family gatherings where the aunts gossiped in the kitchen and Jacob helped them out with the cooking, in late summer afternoons when he turned up with a box of sweet-sticky-heaven and taught them the ball games his uncles taught him. Kowalskis stuck together. Aneta Kowalski had joined her husband in death, but Kowalskis stuck together.

When Jacob brought Newt, he put him with the cousins. Let’s face it - Newt was happier there, learning the ball games and being mock-outraged when the younger kids cheated. Newt gathered with them around the pond, scooping up handfuls of frogspawn to see the tadpoles wriggle inside and catching the more intrepid cousins with discrete hovering charms when they reached out too far over the water and fell in. Jacob brought out plates of buns and Queenie swept behind him with trays of hot cocoa, and Newt sat cross legged on the floor with twigs in his hair and grass stains on his elbows and said things in his funny British accent to make the cousins laugh.

The various aunts hovered and cooed and, one christmas, the oldest of the Kowalski clan (who once had been the second son) presented Newt with a pocket watch, and as far as anyone was concerned that made it official. Newt was a Kowalski and Kowalskis stuck together.


End file.
